


Instinct

by BummedOutWriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Creature Fic, Creature Harry Potter, Creature Inheritance, Dubious Consent, Friends With Benefits, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Secret Relationship, Top Harry, Veela Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-02-18 13:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18700228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BummedOutWriter/pseuds/BummedOutWriter
Summary: Draco was midway through afternoon tea with his parents when Potter tumbled out of the floo.“I can fertilize you?”Draco flushed crimson. “Absolutely not!”His parents watched, nonplussed, as the two proceeded with an indecipherable shouting match of the most weird nature, and it couldn’t even be resolved with makeup sex. Draco made to storm off when Potter caught his arm.





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #3 for smirkingcat. A long forgotten creature inheritance suddenly awakes and story ensures.
> 
> Some of the inspiration for this story was definitely drawn from Angels and Devils by beren.
> 
> Thank you bblgumbby for being such a prompt, patient, and incredible beta.

A bat-winged ink bottle, of all things, fluttered over and began to knock itself against Harry’s head while splashes of ink precariously overflowed from its spout. Harry’s combined confusion and indecision on whether to dodge or swat resulted in several ink stains on his olive skin. The thing had the tenacity of a mosquito and either effort proved useless. It was only when Snape spun to face the second-year Potions class, that the ink-bat martyred itself by crashing to the ground, consequently splattering Harry’s shoes.

“Thirty points from Gryffindor,” said Snape, glaring.

Harry, in turn, glowered at Malfoy who was abortively trying to suppress his sniggers with Crabbe and Goyle on the other side of the classroom.

“You should be done adding the horned toad by now,” Snape nasalized to the class as he stalked about, looking disgusted with the surrounding ineptness.

On his way to the store cupboard, Malfoy offered some commentary on Harry’s progress: “You call that diced? It’s practically sludge,” he hissed as he passed.

Brows crossing, Harry ignored him, trying not to allow himself to be distracted.

On Malfoy’s way back from the cupboard, he made sure to shove Harry roughly, nearly knocking him into the cauldron he had been hunched over. Hermione had to practically leap onto Ron’s back to stop him from charging forward.

A trickle of sweat rolled down Harry’s temple. Trying to ignore how hot he was getting, he continued to stubbornly work on his, admittedly off-color, potion.

In another few moments, he’d nearly chopped off his finger as he was assaulted by a charmed paper airplane that was determined to lodge itself into his left nostril. Across the room, the Slytherins were back to their poorly-restrained chortling. Malfoy’s wand was waving, navigating the airplane, and Snape was diligently pretending not to notice.

 **“Stop it!”** Harry exploded.

A frisson overcame the room. Malfoy’s grin fell, as did his wand arm. His hand opened, and his wand dropped to the ground with a small but startling clatter. Malfoy stood frozen as the room fell silent, the other students, and even Snape, staring at the two of them in shock.

“I—well—” Malfoy raised his pointer finger as he tried and failed to produce a sentence.

Harry was alarmed by Malfoy’s, almost magical, obedience. And for some reason, it made him blush.

“Well isn’t this interesting,” Snape said, recovering from his shock as his lip curled in a sneer. “Get back to work, both of you!”

The spell seemed to break, Malfoy looking terribly wan. He dove and retrieved his wand, returned his attention to his potion, and pretended not to notice Harry’s existence for the remainder of the term.

*

 _A fluke_ , Draco reasoned, because that was the only explanation he was willing to consider.

Things normalized by third year, and he was back to treating Potter like the deranged orphan that he was. Thankfully there were no more weird— _episodes_ —between them, at least until the mad hippogriff attacked, after which things went utterly pear-shaped.

“I’m dying!” Draco yelled as the class panicked. “I’m dying, look at me! It’s killed me!”

“Yer not dyin’!” Hagrid said disappointedly.

Before Draco could recite his last will and testament, the great oaf scooped him up like a rag doll, then bounded off to the castle, Draco’s pure blood splattering the grass in their wake.

After Hagrid unceremoniously dumped Draco in the hospital wing, and Madame Pomfrey patched him up, Draco writhed about in pain for a bit, then grew bored, and slumped back in bed. Pomfrey came out of her office and gave him a frosty look, before a shuffling in the corridor seemed to catch her attention. She went to the door.

“I’ll not have you running tracks in front of my wing,” Draco heard her chastise someone. “C’mon. Get in, then.”

Draco craned his neck, curious of whether Pansy had come to coddle him, when Potter emerged into the room, looking ill.

Draco was half expecting for Potter to collapse dead—attention-whore that he was—but instead Potter walked over to Draco’s bed, almost as though he had come by to…visit him.

Draco’s heart sunk as Potter stood there stiffly, maintaining a healthy distance yet still remaining enduringly _present._

“Are you—okay?” Potter managed.

Draco was just about to tell him to stuff it, when he felt a phantom surge of pleasure at Potter’s concern. He tried to cast it away. Potter drew slightly closer.

“Of course not,” said Draco snippily. “I nearly got killed.”

Potter paled considerably, clutching his chest with one hand.

“I’m maimed. Disfigured. The stupid animal practically tore off my ar—”

“Mr. Malfoy!” Pomfrey sharply cut in. She turned to Potter, and with a sympathetic look, said, “He’s fine. All patched up. Won’t even scar. He’ll be out of here by dinner time.”

Some of the color returned to Potter’s face. “Right. Okay,” he said in apparent embarrassment. He took a step back, still looking rather sick.

“You can stay if you want,” said Madam Pomfrey knowingly.

“What? No,” Potter protested, and gave an unconvincing smile. “I was actually hoping that—that he was hurt more.” He looked pained as he said it. With that, he fled.

Madam Pomfrey rounded on Draco. “You’d do well not to scare him like that. He’s worried about you, after all. He’s your ma—”

“No,” Draco cut her off, his feelings of pleasure morphing to horror. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t spread ridiculous rumors.”

Pomfrey stared at him as though he was insane. “Mr. Malfoy, not many have creature blood, and even fewer have mates. It represents an extraordinary level of compatibility.”

But Draco wouldn’t hear it. In fact, he covered his ears.

*

It wasn’t until eighth year that things got slightly more drastic.

Random episodes of obedience (on Draco’s part), and protectiveness (on Potter’s part) finally came to a head.

It was the day of the second eclipse of the year, and Draco had been peacefully dozing through History of Magic, when the sight of Potter fumbling in his seat roused Draco into staring.

Potter was flushed, really _flushed,_ a trail of sweat gleaming down his throat. At present, Potter was awkwardly patting at his robes, as they had somehow—of all things—caught a spark.

Potter continued to palm at himself in an almost obscene way, yet the fire only grew, other parts of the fabric catching on now. Finally, Potter had no choice but to leap up from his chair, flailing wildly, now wholly engulfed in flames. Students screamed and ran about, Gryffindors, and even some Slytherins, attempting to pat Potter down. Draco simply stared in shock as the fire swallowed Potter, causing him to collapse in a blackened heap.

Soon all that remained of Potter’s body was a lump of ash. Granger was sobbing hysterically. Weasley looked shell shocked.

Draco wondered if the world hadn’t gone mad. The savior of the wizarding world had just— _combusted._ Were people even supposed to burn so completely as to leave no body behind? Well, if it was a magical fire, then yes. Draco knew from experience.

“Someone get the headmistress,” said Binns, appearing uniquely disconcerted as students sobbed and hugged each other, or shook their heads in silent denial. “Get Pomfrey. Get the minister! Harry Potter is dead.”

It was the epitome of irony. Potter had won the second war only to die arbitrarily in the dullest class Hogwarts had to offer.

The cause of death was officially ruled, “accidental,” and “egregious misuse of a wand.” There was a huge campaign throughout Hogwarts that suggested students keep wands at least five millimeters from their bodies at all times, however the hell that was supposed to work. The Potter-narrative subtly shifted from _Glorious Hero_ to _Incompetent Lunatic?_

Students were given the rest of the week off classes, and it was like someone took Draco’s batteries out.

He was dazed and complacent over the next few days. He followed the arrangement of his schedule fastidiously, and went up to the Great Hall for meals only when Goyle urged him to follow. Otherwise he sat in his dorm and did nothing but stare off. McGonagall called him to her office, appraised him, and accused him of suffering a muggle condition called _Post Traumatic Stress Disorder._ His parents were disturbed, and sent for him to come home for the remainder of the fall, so Draco did.

At the manor, he sat in his bedroom, somewhat sagged, and stared aimlessly out his window, too weary to summon the energy to think about Potter, let alone _anything_ , really. He wasn’t sure where the “stress” aspect of his condition applied. He wasn’t stressed. He wasn’t anything, just a template, just perfectly blank. He watched the sun gradually lower in the sky and soon became aware of the presence of other people in his room, their voices distant, lingering on the edges of his focus.

“This isn’t trauma,” someone said. It was Waters, the family healer. “This symptom is called languor. It’s his veela inheritance.”

“What?” Mother croaked. “There hasn’t been a veela in our line for at least a century.”

“Another person may have triggered his dormant genes,” Waters responded, now waving his wand around Draco’s unfocused eyes. “Sometimes it’s a mutual phenomenon. Are there other students with creature blood in his school?”

“I’m doubtful,” said Father coldly. “Creature inheritance is practically unheard of these days. Clearly this is just—”

Waters’ wand flicked, and Draco felt a strange twinge in his back. Heat, discomfort, and pressure surged, until something exploded from his shoulder blades, tearing his robes, and pitching him forward in his seat. Father swore loudly and Mother caught him in her arms, keeping him balanced in the chair with his face buried against her stomach.

“Don’t touch them,” Waters warned, referring to the large wings that seemed to be hovering around Draco now.

Father was pacing. “It’s true then. He’s a bloody _veela._ ”

“But why now?” Mother queried. “His birthday was over the summer. Isn’t that ordinarily when…” she trailed off, getting choked up.

“He could have gone his whole life without any overt manifestations,” Waters responded. “However, it’s completely normal for a submissive to react this way when something happens to their mate.”

Father flinched. “Su-submissive!?”

Mother carefully propped Draco up and peered down at him.

“The issue is that this state will leave him rather vulnerable,” Waters continued.

“What can we do?” Mother said.

Waters thought for a moment. “It will take some effort, but he will need to find a new mate, preferably someone magically strong. When he finds a new dominant, he will be more responsive—of course, depending on his new mate’s power.”

“My son isn’t going to—he didn’t have a—” Father stopped, and took some forceful breaths. “Why does he have to be bloody _omega?_ ” he demanded, looking wrought and flustered.

“I didn’t even know he was close to—to anyone,” said Mother bleakly.

“He didn’t necessarily have to be,” Waters responded with a shrug. “It’s all about compatibility. The magic handled things from there.”

“This is that _imbecile’s_ doing, isn’t it?” said Father scornfully. “You know what they’re saying about him now? That his defeat of the Dark Lord was incidental to his incompetence. That he barely knew how to handle a wand. I swear, if he hadn’t already offed himself...” Father’s words trailed off as Mother guided him out of the room, Waters following behind them.

That evening, Mother supervised Draco as he ate, but it was a long, tedious process, because she had to urge him on each spoonful of his shepherd’s pie. When Father yelled at him, Draco was somewhat more productive, but not by much. From his periphery he could see Mother’s tearful face and Father’s look of disgust.

Draco’s wings retracted on their own during the night, and in the morning, Mother dragged him to Potter’s funeral.

“It might offer some closure,” she said frigidly.

It was a morose affair, made only drearier by the cold humidity that hung around the Thames. Granger was still blubbering inconsolably as she clutched at the Weasle, who looked dour, and could hardly string two words together.

It seemed the entire ministry was there, as well as most of the Hogwarts student body. Mother pulled Draco towards the front, to stand with some other upper-year students in their sea of black robes.

On the shoreline, Granger lifted an onyx urn, wrenched it open, and proceeded to unceremoniously dump Potter’s ashes into the river. Tears and mucus ran over her lips as she whimpered and mewled.

And then it was over.

As everyone milled about, getting ready to go, and put this whole sordid affair behind them where it would be remembered only by the history books, a crackle of electricity sparked through Draco, jolting him out of his stupor and to the opposite extreme. His nerves stood on end, his body tense and twitching. The muggy air lit up in a flash of bright orange that left people squealing and momentarily blind.

There was a splashing noise accompanied by hoarse coughing. Just as Draco’s vision cleared, he made out a soaking wet Harry Potter, crawling out of the river and patting at the rocks by some nerdish compulsion, as though his glasses hadn’t been turned to dust like the rest of him.

People stood in frozen shock. Some screamed, struggled, and began to trample each other. Weasley staggered back and fell on his arse. Granger looked like she might faint.

Draco found himself simply gawking, his eyes pinned to Potter’s naked…very naked…form. It took every iota of his constitution to wrench his gaze away, then he did the only thing he could think to do. He bolted.

*

_The omnix is one of the rarest of creatures, and is said to have come into existence during the vampire epidemic of the 1890s. When vampire Queen, Clara Kane, killed famed potioneer, Oscar Carragher, she unwittingly exposed herself to a potion he had consumed in anticipation of his murder, the recipe based in phoenix blood. Kane developed immunity to the sun, loss of power during the night, the inability to feed on blood, as well as other unusual characteristics that effectively robbed her of her identity as a vampire. The resulting infighting, and subsequent vampire war, killed off up to eighty percent of the vampire population in Europe. Kane disappeared during the war and was never seen again. In the decades that followed, there was the occasional upcropping of omnixes in certain family lines. Carragher’s potion has never since been replicated, and it is believed that both human and phoenix sacrifice were cardinal to its effectiveness._

_Characteristics:_

_Omnixes are at their magical peak during the day when the sun is at the highest point in the sky. On muggy days, and at night, weaker omnixes are prone to magical malaise._

_Omnixes have the ability to sense when their mate is in pain or distress, and can often detect hormonal and health changes going on in the people around them. Some omnixes have even been known to demonstrate certain healing abilities._

_During the eclipse, omnixes go into heat, resulting in a gradual increase of body temperature throughout the day. Symptoms include flush, sweating, glowing, and eventual combustion, which can occur any time of the day, depending on the omnix’s temperament. The omnix will be “reborn” from his or her ashes in 2-5 days, through which their magic will be cleansed of any adulterations. Though this is extremely useful for the treatment of magical maladies, curses particularly, omnix rebirth is known to cause discomfort, disorientation, and sometimes pain and trauma. It is typically recommended that omnixes maintain contact with their mates during heats to prevent combustion._

_Omnixes become very sexual during heats, but more strongly, they crave companionship, and can be entirely content to forego penetrative sexual intercourse for simple contact with their mates._

_As with many other creatures, there exists a dominant/submissive dynamic amongst omnixes. Dominants have the ability to command their submissives. This ability is not to be taken lightly, as many creature submissives have the corresponding ability to—_

Draco snapped the book closed. He had read enough. He glared down, clenching his fists and feeling absolutely irate.

Potter had caused him to have a full-blown veela episode. Worse, Draco could remember every moment of it. He could recall the lethargy, the languid complacency, the lack of inspiration regarding anything from doing schoolwork to eating.

He remembered his complete dependency on those around him, and just the thought made him shudder. Somehow Potter’s indisposition had rendered him a human doll.

The prat had managed to trigger Draco’s inheritance. Veelas had a compatibility with several other creatures, including Potter’s, _apparently_ , and so Draco’s creature had, on some subconscious level, _for some ungodly reason_ , come to recognize Potter as its mate.

Draco leaned down, resting his head in his hands.

This meant that every time Potter went into heat from now on, Draco would revert to his sorry state of ineptitude until Potter was “reborn,” so to speak. Draco muttered obscenities under his breath. He couldn’t go through that again. Certainly not _regularly._

Raking his hands through his hair, Draco looked up, to see that his parents were ogling him. It was dinner time after all. Shoving the text aside, Draco feebly picked at his peas with a fork. Things had been awkward at home since the funeral. His parents looked exceedingly grim about the recent events, but both had decided to pretend that nothing had happened, and Draco figured it was for the best.

Still, his parents looked at him as though he had betrayed them somehow. Draco could see the accusation in their eyes, and he feared that it was, in some part, valid.

*

“Do you want to talk about it?” said Hermione shakily. She was still quite jittery, often checking in on him by floo at all hours of the night if just to make sure he hadn’t died again.

“Not really.” Harry frowned at her, his chest heavy with guilt. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine Harry, it’s just—we really _should_ talk about it.”

Harry surveyed his friends, both of whom were staring at him with the intensity of a scientist anticipating a chemical reaction.

“You haven’t said anything,” Ron mumbled. “You should have seen how shaken mum was. We—we thought that you had—”

“I know,” Harry responded as he contemplated. He’d suffered a creature inheritance. It had flared in his bloodline for whatever reason. Harry didn’t really understand it, but it was a new part of his identity whether he liked it or not. “So I, erm, died…” he managed, trying not to cringe at the residual sensation of it on his bones. It had been worse than the first time, weird and uncomfortable. It left him feeling like pieces futility trying to work in conjunction rather than a whole, functional, entity. His “rebirth” had not been an enjoyable experience, and in the days since, Harry diet had consisted of chocolate and coffee.

Even at present, he was munching on a chocolate frog, trying to hit those highs that made him truly _feel_. And yet it wasn’t nearly sufficient. He wondered if Ron would help him find some of that white powdery drug the muggles were so fond of.

Hermione sighed. “You were in heat, Harry.”

“Heat,” Harry repeated thoughtfully, the term meaning little to him.

“When an omnix goes into heat, without a mate, he, uh…”

“Bursts into flames,” Ron piped in.

“Exactly,” said Hermione.

“Flaming.” Ron winked.

It was a lot to process. Apparently Harry was no longer a wizard, but something called an _omnix._ Another creature might have triggered him, or something. He was foggy on the details.

“So is it over?” said Harry with no expectation that it was. This was just another rabbit hole he was being plunged through when he would have far preferred a chance at being a normal teenager.

“Of course not,” Hermione said, commiserating with him. She reached over to cup the side of his head, her thumb stroking over the spot where his scar had disappeared. “How does it feel to be magically pure again?”

“I...” Harry hesitated, but then tried to voice what he had truly been feeling for the past few days. “I _want_ ,” he whispered.

Hermione gave a weak smile. “Understandably.” She reached into her bag to pull out a scroll. “You lost any residuals of your mother’s protection. Voldemort’s influence. It’s a lot to get used to.”

That wasn’t it, but Harry didn’t disagree. His eyes lowered to the scroll Hermione had smoothed out across the coffee table. 

“This is a solar calendar,” she explained. “It marks the moon phases, the equinox—lots of things—but for our purposes, we’ll focus on the solar eclipse.” She pointed out the next one, which was to occur in about five months. “This is going to be the day of your next heat.”

Harry felt nauseous just thinking about it. “How do I stop it?”

“You have to choose a mate,” she said simply.

That word again. Mate. “Well I have one,” he said, patting Ron’s leg as Ron nodded in agreement, slinging his arm about Harry’s shoulders.

“No Harry. I mean a partner. An _intimate_ partner.”

Ron frowned and edged away from him.

“Like…a spouse?” said Harry uneasily.

“More than that, actually. Like a bond-mate. A mate can keep you, well, _together_ , during heats.”

“So I won’t…”

Ron puffed his cheeks and spread his hands while making faux explosion noises with his mouth.

 _“Exactly,”_ said Hermione.

Harry felt increasingly ill.

“Unless you’ve already chosen one?” she said gently, leaning closer, uncomfortably _scrutinizing_. “That day that you…erm…”

“Combusted?”

“Indeed. Was there someone on your mind?”

Harry didn’t admit that _someone_ had certainly been on his mind, in fact, the only thing he’d been able to think about that day, until the distraction became edginess and heat that surged and erupted in dazzling conflagration.

“No,” he said quickly.

Hermione hummed and began to discuss ways of finding Harry a compatible creature with whom he could bond. In the meantime, Harry gazed down at the calendar and began to count the days till the next eclipse.

*

A few days later, Harry was back at Hogwarts, and the weeks passed in relative normalcy, save for his peers who couldn’t seem to decide whether to be frightened of him or awed. By then, the _Prophet_ had deduced Harry’s creature inheritance, and it seemed that everyone was gawking at him in anticipation of another combustion. The eclipse was going to be _nightmarish_. Though, on second thought, Harry would probably take that day off.

Of the intriguing behaviors, no one could trump Malfoy, who seemed to be maintaining a strategic distance from Harry. Rather than taunting, hexing, or pelting objects at Harry during their shared lessons, Malfoy sat as far from him as he possibly could, and hunched over his schoolwork while muttering neurotically, as though in conversation with an invisible, incompetent person.

Additionally, Malfoy was _antsy_ lately. His cheeks had taken on a permanent pink flush, he restlessly paced out in the corridors while waiting for lessons, or leaned back on the wall, tapping his foot or drumming his fingers on his arm. When seated, he crossed his leg and shook it restlessly. The blonde was dizzyingly fidgety. And lately, for some reason—

“Is he wearing _gloves?_ ” Harry asked incredulously over breakfast one morning.

“Who?”

“Malfoy.”

Ron raised his brow and glanced across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table. “Oh, I guess he is.” He snorted. “The git.”

Harry craned his neck to continue his study of Malfoy, when Hermione insinuated herself into his line of sight. “Harry, do you think you’ve been rather distracted today?” she asked, leading.

“Yeah, I know, it’s just, Malfoy’s…”

The berk was clearly up to something, with the flush, the leather gloves, and the infuriating fidgeting. In fact, all of Malfoy’s restless energy was making Harry himself feel out of sorts.

Harry raised his hand to take another bite out of the chocolate frog he’d been ravaging with gentle nibbles and sucks, only to come face to face with a thick puddle of chocolate melted on his palm, some of it trickling down his wrist. Harry choked on saliva, and slapped his hand down on the table, leaving a chocolate hand-print on the tablecloth. At the smack, several students turned to Harry in anticipation. Harry looked at Hermione in terror. “Is it my—?”

“Harry, no,” said Hermione, looking at him with wide eyes. “The next eclipse isn’t for another few months.”

Yet Harry was terrified all the same. “I, um, I have to go.” Ignoring Ron and Hermione’s protests, he got up and hurried off to the hospital wing.

Moments later found Harry seated on a bed with Madame Pomfrey clucking over him, a muggle thermometer protruding from his mouth.

“How is it?” Harry said after Madame Pomfrey withdrew it.

“Ridiculous. Off the scales,” she responded as she marveled at the device. At Harry’s horrified look, she offered a sympathetic smile. “Which is entirely normal for you, given your inheritance. You’ll be fine.”

“But I’m feeling a bit warm…” _…burning hot, actually_ … “…and I’m scared I’m going to…” Harry trailed off, feeling himself redden even more.

“Mr. Potter, you simply have to calm yourself. Why don’t you lie down for a little while.” Pomfrey helped him recline.

“How am I supposed to stay calm when I’m about to catch fire?” said Harry petulantly.

“It is nowhere near the eclipse. You won’t combust, I _promise._ ”

“Then what _is_ this?” said Harry in frustration. He hadn’t felt so anxious since before his “rebirthing.”

Pomfrey heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You’re not in heat, Mr. Potter, however…another student may be,” she said delicately.

Harry goggled her.

“Their heat may be…antagonizing your creature a bit.”

“I don’t understand.”

Pomfrey perused him. “Has anyone spoken to you about your mate?”

The sensation of warmth exacerbated and Harry was rendered dizzy. Pomfrey hurried off to get him an ice pack, which Harry subsequently clutched to his head.

“I thought I only had to deal with this twice a year,” he rasped.

“Not necessarily twice. An eclipse can happen up to five times a year. But that’s beside the point. You’ll be fine, dear. Your symptoms are mild, but you may find yourself warm and distracted over the next few days.” Pomfrey tipped a vial of pink potion down his throat. Harry felt himself submerged in a synthetic mellowness that was at least preferable to the panic.

She then set a thick text in his hands. “Go through this when you get the chance. You’ll be fine, Mr. Potter. Truly.”

Pomfrey set him up with a small case of potions— _mood stabilizers_ —to take back to his dorm, and it was only after Harry had left, and glanced down at the book in his arms, that the heat resurged with a spike that left him staggering.

_Veela Magic and Mating Habits_

*

That afternoon Potter was floating around with a strangely mellow demeanor. Occasionally he would look at Draco, rummage in his pocket, and down a vial of hot pink potion in one gulp. It seemed he had graduated from gorging himself on chocolate to something a bit harder.

Draco glared at him warningly, yet everywhere he turned, Potter seemed to be lurking around with a queer look on his face. Draco finally snapped when Potter had the audacity to bump into him outside of the Charms classroom.

“Why are you following me, Potter!?” Draco demanded, fingers twitching in his pockets, where he knew talons were protruding in place of his nail beds.

Potter blinked. “Huh, I wasn’t—”

“Yes you are, you’re fucking following me Potter, I know you are! First you ruined my life with your flaming-phoenix horse dick, and now you’re following me around the castle. Well guess what Potter, I don’t care how big your cock is or how many times you come back to life, I’m going to kill you properly!” Draco pulled out his wand and started wildly casting hexes as Potter ducked for cover and their surrounding classmates squealed, darting off in all directions. But soon Draco’s wand was being wrestled out of his grasp, and _Slytherins,_ of all beings, were restraining him by the arms as he writhed and kicked out and promised Potter the most lurid death he could think of. The Chosen One simply stumbled back, looking both intoxicated and alarmed.

“That’s enough.” Flitwick appeared, his eyes a mix of disapproval and concern. “One-hundred points from Slytherin. Mr. Malfoy, report to your house head at once!”

When Draco got down to the dungeons and gave Snape a superficial and admittedly abridged version of what had transpired, Snape just sneered at him and ordered that he serve the rest of the period as detention.

Draco spent the time pacing the Potions classroom up and down, sorting and resorting ingredients as ordered, jiggling his arm for no particular reason, and hopping up and down in his continued efforts to reach the dittany jars. He was getting started on polishing some first-years’ cauldrons, for extra credit, or whatever, when he noticed, vaguely, that Snape was talking to him, the repetitions of “Draco” serving as little more than background noise amongst the buzzing.

“Stand still for a moment!” Snape shouted.

Draco froze and turned to his house head.

Snape looked aggrieved. “You’re in heat,” he concluded.

“What? No I’m not.” Draco shook his head so furiously that it quickly made him wobbly.

Snape frowned. “Deal with this, Draco. Don’t come back to classes until you do. Now get out of my sight.”

Draco returned to his eighth-year quarters, which he shared with Goyle, who must have been at dinner by then. Too restless to eat, Draco took to school work, quickly scribbling his way through two essays, filling out his Astronomy chart, and then doing all Goyle’s homework to boot. When he was finished, he changed into his pajamas, and noticed that Goyle’s bed hangings were now closed. He must have come in while Draco was poring over their homework and deemed not to distract him. Nodding absently, Draco climbed into his own bed and did his best to get comfortable, but found himself squirming, itching, feeling warm and compressed. He thought of what Snape had alleged.

 _He’s wrong he’s wrong he’s wrong he’s wrong…_ The words sang in his head, a hyperactive mantra.

He eventually tired himself out with all his tossing, turning, and fidgeting. When he awoke, the room was still dark, and Goyle was snoring loudly. A quick _Tempus_ told Draco that it was three in the morning, and he groaned, knowing that he had little hope of falling back asleep.

He was warm and _hard_ , his skin tingling, a painful erection straining against his pajama pants. He tried to stop thinking about how this was all Potter’s fault because it only led to other, less adverse, thoughts of Potter. He shifted, then stilled at the sensation of wetness in the back of his pants. _Oh fuck, oh fuck…_ He had never felt so mortified as he felt alone there, throbbing with need, and viciously acquainted with that fact that he truly _was_ a submissive.

He felt sick and cloudy, like he was submerging, the creature prickling under his skin. Draco got up and quietly changed into a fresh pair of pajama pants. He needed some air, so he slid out of the room, his magic harsh and lashing. He could practically _feel_ Potter’s presence around him. It was stifling.

And as much as Draco wanted to locate him, draw him, and capture him with his allure, he whimpered and staggered his way along the corridors, eventually finding his way out of the castle, fingers curled, claws twitching. The air was pleasantly cold, freezing actually. _Yes._ This was what he needed. Operating on instinct, Draco negotiated the large campus towards the forest. He slipped in silent and barefoot, the foliage soft instead of crunching, until he finally emerged into a small clearing and—

“F-fuck.”

There stood Potter, arms crossed, looking just as confused as Draco was. But then Potter’s eyes darkened, his gaze rapt, and Draco felt his body continue to move despite the feeling of doom that grew with every step of distance he eliminated between them. As Potter’s arms locked about his waist, Draco felt himself raise his arms to Potters’s shoulders, his clawed fingers trailing Potter’s scalp, sifting through wild hair that proved as thick as it was soft. _Mate,_ Draco deemed as he was drawn yet closer. Potter leaned forward and the rest was a blur.

*

He was being carried in surprisingly strong arms. As he was set gently on a soft surface, Draco’s eyes slid open to the hospital wing.

His attention shifted to Potter, who stood beside him, looking dirty and disheveled. His clothes were torn in several places, a large rip exposing his gently muscled torso.

 _Crap,_ Draco thought as he abruptly remembered their encounter in the forest. He covered his face with his hands. “No, no, no, no…” This wasn’t happening. This _couldn’t_ be happening. He looked at his shaking fingers. Despite his agitation, his claws were gone.

Potter grabbed the front of Draco’s shirt, and suddenly his forehead and against his, Potter’s skin warm and welcoming. “Are you okay?” Potter murmured so softly that Draco barely heard it.

Eyes half-lidded, Draco felt almost drugged from the contact. He felt Potter’s nose lightly brush his and didn’t realize he nodded until Potter continued.

“Okay.” Potter‘s hands moved to the sides of his face in a gesture that was startlingly intimate for such a lucid moment.

And for some reason Draco didn’t withdraw, not until there were feet approaching, voices accompanying them.

Potter frowned. “I should go.” He straightened.

Draco nodded, desperately this time, and it was just as Potter exited into the corridor that Pomfrey came out of her office, accompanied by McGonagall and two fretful blondes. Draco cringed at the sight of them.

“Draco?” Mother hurried over to his bed. She looked devastated as she took in his disheveled appearance. “Are you okay? What happened to you? Gregory said you went missing during the night.”

“Were you attacked?” Father demanded. “Who did this to you!?”

For a moment, Draco’s words seemed caught in his throat. Unable to come up with a less-embarrassing testimonial, he resigned himself to telling the truth. “I went into heat,” he said, triumphing the previous night for the most humiliating moment of his life. “It was bad. And I…er…” He felt his cheeks light up like a beacon on his pale skin.

His parents fell into a grim silence, and simply appraised him for a while, as though afraid to carry the subject any further.

“Who was it?” said Mother eventually.

Draco choked. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“We want to hear you say it,” demanded Father.

“No,” said Draco mutinously. His face returned to his hands, and more to himself, he protested, “No, no, no…” But his protests gradually became a struggle, his stomach lurching, muscles tensing, as though the thought of rejecting Potter was causing him physical harm. His blood throbbed as his heart clenched and twisted forcefully under his ribs, and eventually he couldn’t deny it anymore. In fact, he _supplicated,_ “H…Harry.”

As Mother paled, Father turned and stormed off. Mother hurried after him, but they both froze after Father flung the door open.

Harry Potter stood in the corridor, looking flushed and uneasy. Clutching his chest, he said, “I’m…erm…is Draco okay?” His jaw clenched.

Draco’s parents stood stiffly frozen for a moment until finally Mother stepped aside, pulling Father along with her.

Potter approached the bed, wearing a self-depreciating smile.

“You ruined everything, Potter,” said Draco in defeat.

“Mm,” Potter agreed, sitting on the bed. Without prompt or permission, he pulled Draco into his chest, tucking him under his chin, as though this was proper hospital etiquette.

Draco breathed into Potter’s worn shirt, allowing himself to be held. He desperately wanted to pull away but equally felt inclined to stay in this embrace no shorter than forever, or at least, as long as he could. “Prat,” he said, voice muffled.

Potter shook his head and looked up. “I think he’s still coming off it,” he murmured, to their overseers.

Draco didn’t want to turn to see Father’s irate expression or the brittle contortion of his Mother’s lips.

“Well this is...something.” McGonagall sounded weary.

Mother’s voice was just as tired. “We should make the proper arrangements.”

*

“How often are your heats?” Harry asked later that day.

Malfoy’s parents were gone, the curtains drawn shut around the bed in the hospital wing, and Harry was sprawled back beside him, one of his arms thrown across his eyes. Apparently Malfoy had the ability to siphon his mate’s (Harry’s) magic, or so Pomfrey had apprised. Harry wasn’t sure if that fact was applicable at present, but he felt utterly knackered, and it was always nice to play the blame game.

Harry could hear the sneer in Malfoy’s response ( _like it‘s not a relevant question_ , Harry snorted). “Roughly around the first three or so days of every month…ish. It’s not exact,” he hedged. “Not all of us are lucky enough to get off with short heats on exact dates just twice a year.”

“The eclipse can occur up to five times in one year,” Harry responded informatively. “And I don’t get off easy, I die. I literally _die._ ”

Malfoy gave an unimpressed snort, then turned on the bed so he was facing Harry, his head landing against Harry’s shoulder, where he immediately dozed, and it was very odd, the intimacy of it all, but Harry’s body felt pleasantly tempered for the first time in a days, like he was swaying along in tepid lake on a warm summer’s day.

From then on, they agreed to spend their heats together, at their mutual benefit. Harry found that during Malfoy’s heats, both of them could suffice with close contact as an alternative to penetrative sex, the burning, pulsing heat inside Harry mitigated by skin to skin contact. Malfoy would still fidget madly, yet he seemed to calm slightly when Harry spoke, squeezed him, rubbed his back, or did…er…other things.

Oddly enough, Malfoy seemed especially comforted when Harry told him what to do, not that Harry mentioned it. He just made sure to litter his ramblings with urgings and encouragements, Malfoy’s restlessness mitigating seemingly in response.

Harry hadn’t had a second heat yet, and there was a very slim chance of an overlap with Malfoy’s, but he tried not to worry about what that would entail. The two had fervidly decided to keep things platonic, if platonic meant ongoing contempt and threats of violence with a thin agreement of not hexing each other in the queasy “mating quarters” McGonagall set them up with but both scrupulously avoided.

Harry found it inconvenient that Malfoy went into heat every single month but since Malfoy’s heats only tended to last two days on average (sometimes one), it wasn’t too maddening, and, well, the mood-stabilizers helped some.

It was intriguing to see the differences between their creatures. Malfoy’s heats made him undeniably randy, and made Harry randy too, in fact, it made a whole sport of their efforts not to mindlessly fuck each other. Harry recalled his own heat as being more emotional, albeit still rather arousing. But it had been more of an obsessive, even _romantic_ experience, than Malfoy’s decidedly sexual one.

One day, Harry had given Malfoy the solar calendar to examine, and Malfoy marked it up with so many red circles and exclamation marks on the days of the solar eclipse, Harry was befuddled. He wondered if Malfoy reacted negatively when Harry was in heat, or indisposed. Harry still recalled how the sight of Malfoy being slashed open by Buckbeak had nearly made him toss his lunch.

“You okay?” Harry murmured that evening.

Malfoy responded with an angry hum. This month’s heat was proving tricky.

It had started with the perfunctory cuddling, well, spooning in this case, as Malfoy seemed to prefer, Harry’s chest to his back, arms wrapped about his waist. Harry murmured and stroked Malfoy’s hair as the veela wriggled and panted in such an arousing way Harry found himself unconsciously rocking his hips. Things descended from there to full on frotting amidst Harry’s struggle to restrain himself. They hadn’t, well, _properly shagged_ in months, not since Malfoy’s first heat, and it seemed to be how the Malfoy family preferred it. Yet at present Malfoy was impatiently struggling out of his clothes, and Harry hadn’t any hopes of even _trying_ to stop him.

“Wait, but, we can’t,” Harry protested unenthusiastically.

Malfoy veritably _jumped_ him, and Harry fell back against the mattress, whimpering under the pleasant friction of Malfoy’s cock on his. There were soft groans, harsh breaths, and pulses of warmth that were pleasant rather than terrifying.

“We shouldn’t,” Harry mumbled as Malfoy pushed up his shirt, and proceeded to nip every part of his skin, leaving bruises and marks, practically trying to _claim_ him, silly submissive that he was. And it was wonderful. It was torture. “So good,” Harry murmured. Malfoy ravished him, as though forgetting his own need for attention, and Harry moaned, “Merlin, wish you’d just…just **kiss me.** ”

Malfoy stilled for a moment, then climbed up Harry’s body, to finally press their lips together in a long, sweet kiss that was only _just_ indulgent. Harry melted slightly until it ended. Malfoy pulled back furiously and proceeded to pummel him.

“Hey—stop— _ow!_ ” Harry cried as he took a cuff to his cheekbone. “What the fuck!?” He caught Malfoy’s wrists.

“You _commanded_ me,” Malfoy accused.

“I what!?”

Malfoy jerked out of Harry’s grip and grabbed his shoulders, the gray of his eyes melting to silver, as Harry was assaulted with shocks of current that ran through his veins, and Malfoy’s skin glowed. But rather than being galvanized, Harry weakened until he realized that Malfoy was _siphoning_ his magic. Harry threw him off him. “What the fuck!?” he repeated, gasping.

Malfoy launched himself at him, and the two became a scuffle of hands, feet and…wings? They tumbled to floor, Harry pinning Malfoy to the shag, and thanking Merlin that Ron was spending the night in the school’s Head Girl quarters.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry, processing what he had done and feeling abashed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Malfoy watched him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t do it again,” he said quietly.

“I promise I won’t, I mean I—I’ll try not to.” Harry’s heart sank as he realized, with growing chagrin, that nothing about the kiss had been authentic.

Malfoy still looked livid, but he gave a slight nod, so Harry climbed off him. For the while the two sat in silence on the floor, Harry growing warm and Malfoy beginning to squirm.

“You have wings,” Harry mentioned arbitrarily. He reached to stroke one of the large, white appendages. The feathers were incredibly soft, in fact, the softest thing Harry had ever felt. Malfoy shivered.

Looking spacey, Malfoy swallowed, and managed a nod. So Harry continued to idly stroke the wings, and it actually proved quite…helpful.

*

Malfoy’s wings didn’t pop out again during his next heat, but the blonde’s increasing use of his abilities made Harry curious, so he decided to finally peruse the book Pomfrey had given him on veelas. He flipped to the chapter entitled _Magic._

_Veelas have a wide range of abilities. Most famously, they employ allure, a pheromone used to seduce those of sexual compatibility for romantic, sexual, or more furtive purposes. A veela’s allure grows decreasingly effective on individuals with continued exposure._

_Other abilities include:_

_-The ability to transform and shoot fireballs, found in alphas. This transformation is triggered by agitation, and is seen at a lesser extent, in omegas, who are unable to create fireballs, but have been known to develop talons. Alphas, however, will develop sharp beaks and bird-like appearances._

_-The ability to syphon magic, exclusive to omegas. This skill is especially important during pregnancy._

_-The presentation of wings. Though fully equipped for flight, veela wings are often presented as a sign of comfort, openness, vulnerability, and submission. The appearance of wings may also indicate an opportune time for breeding._

_-Some veela have been known to develop the ability to magically summon their..._

Harry lowered the book thoughtfully. He had always seen things in terms of dominant and submissive, but this book seemed to use the terms “alpha” and “omega.” He supposed that meant Malfoy was an omega.

And then Harry scowled, suddenly annoyed that Malfoy seemed to have so many random abilities. All Harry got was the odd cleanse of “rebirthing” after a failed heat. One would think his “dominant” label came with an actual advantage. Irked, he pushed the book aside.

*

After graduation, Harry and Malfoy both took ministry jobs, and though they did not work together, they did see each other in the building from time to time, as their departments had the tendency to interact.

Harry could always tell when Malfoy’s heat was coming by Malfoy’s increase of irritability, bad behavior, overt aggression, and the blatant violence with which he did anything from closing his office door to shaking a colleague’s hand.

At the sight of Malfoy threatening his sobbing secretary with a demotion one day, Harry deemed it best to pull the blonde aside.

Yes, Malfoy was close. Harry could practically _smell_ it on him. He suddenly found his nose buried in Malfoy’s neck in the file room. They stood in the corner, behind the door hinge, so that if someone entered, they would at least have a few seconds to prepare for the political disaster of their relationship. Delightfully, Malfoy turned to goo in his hold.

“We’re cutting it too close,” Harry muttered, aware that his own heat was coming up. He had never had a heat with Malfoy, and felt oddly vulnerable. “Yours is nearly here, and it’s only the twenty-sixth of the month,” he reproved.

Malfoy bristled and pulled back. “Veela heats are inexact. I told you they could shift.”

Harry still found it to be oddly early. After all, it had been consistent for so many months. Harry sent Malfoy a wary look, wondering if the blond was just trying to screw him (figuratively and literally).

Malfoy responded with a scathing look of his own. Biting his bottom lip, Harry contemplated.

“You’re coming to my house,” Harry decided, eyes darkening, “tonight,” he ordered, and it wasn’t a _command_ , but Malfoy swayed anyway.

“I, erm...” Malfoy grasped the wall, yet he was predictably defiant. “You can come to the manor—”

“I’m not sure the manor would be wise,” said Harry, taking hold of Malfoy’s robes.

Harry’s first heat had been pretty mild, but this one felt much more potent, intensified by Malfoy’s own viciously approaching cycle. The intensity was building faster and faster, and they were going to clash so forcefully Harry wasn’t sure he wanted any witnesses around.

Malfoy squirmed a bit, and grudgingly agreed, vaguely, to come to Grimmauld, after which Harry managed to unclamp his hands from the veela’s work robes. Why did the prat have to make everything so difficult?

Looking flustered, Malfoy peered at him as he left the file room, eyes alight with vicious arousal. Harry leered back, and caught the door before Malfoy could slam it shut. Harry followed him out, even though he should have waited a few minutes in favor of discretion but he was feeling oddly...possessive. He barely restrained himself from pulling Malfoy back into the room, instead watching intently as the blonde sauntered off to the lift.

*

That evening Harry sat in an armchair in the Grimmauld living room, drawing calming breaths as he felt his heat cumulate rapidly. He poured himself a glass of firewhiskey, having graduated from the mood stabilizers to a much more pleasant inebriation. He leaned back, enjoying the disembodied groans and creaks that littered the old property. He didn’t know how long he laid there, trying to temper himself, until the floo roared, and he found himself watching Malfoy as the blonde let himself into the room.

“I should be on the first portkey out of town,” said Malfoy wryly.

Harry just continued to study him, his mind fogging with a feral need. Malfoy was even further now, to the cusp. It left Harry’s pulse racing.

“Oh,” said Malfoy, peering at Harry with fascination. “Yours is starting.” He approached the armchair, reaching down, and as his hand contacted Harry’s cheek, Harry was washed with cool relief that made his eyes flutter closed.

“You can tell?” he said.

“It’s like you have...fireflies floating around under your skin.”

“That’s rather dramatic.”

“I’m being literal,” said Malfoy testily.

Harry opened his eyes, and found them locked on gray ones. Malfoy trembled slightly and retracted his hand before folding his arms over his waist, his back shuddering.

“You alright?” Harry asked. It looked like his wings were trying to...would they come out? What if Harry _told_ him to take them out?

Malfoy nodded curtly. “I just have to lie down.”

“Second floor on the left.”

Malfoy seemed hesitant to leave.

“I’ll be fine,” said Harry. “It’s all about temperament, yeah?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that,” he drawled. Still looking uncertain, he walked to the stairs and threw a glance back at Harry. “Don’t keep me waiting, Potter.”

“Mm,” Harry responded noncommittally as he watched Malfoy disappear up to the second floor. His blood thrummed in tumultuous, overlapping waves of warmth.

Taking a deep draw of air, Harry got up, and crouched down to the floo. Nipping his bottom lip, he called Hermione.

She appeared a moment later, the collar of her pajamas peeking up beneath her chin. “Harry, how are you doing?”

“Okay so far,” Harry managed, grateful that she probably couldn’t tell he was blushing, what with his glowing and whatnot. “I’m starting my—”

“Yes, I know. It’s the eclipse.”

Harry nodded. “We’ve been trying to keep things platonic. We rather don’t want to…complicate things. Only, Malfoy’s having his heat too, and I don’t think either of us have much control at this point,” Harry admitted, the warmth building.

Hermione gave him a speculative look. “Harry…you know what you have to do if you don’t want to burn.”

He gulped.

“Go to Malfoy,” she said. He knew she was worried about him.

“Right. Okay.”

“It’s going to be fine. With creatures, sometimes all that matters is...instinct.”

He hoped she was right. They cut the connection. Harry took a deep breath, then went up to the second floor.

He climbed onto the bed behind Malfoy, embracing him, and the moment he did, he knew he was a lost cause. Malfoy was warm and wet and ready for him. Harry breathed into the crook of his neck. He couldn’t handle it. Between Malfoy’s pheromones, and his own heat, this was torture. “Let me take care of you,” he urged.

Malfoy released a shuddering breath.

“Need you.” Harry rolled his hips and Malfoy groaned. “Want you so bad.” He was so hard it was almost painful. He could feel Malfoy’s slick through his pants. “You’re my mate,” he growled, consumed by a visceral need. **“You’re my mate.”**

“Fuck, Potter.”

**“Omega.”**

“Alpha,” Malfoy responded automatically, then he grimaced at his reaction. “I’m your mate,” he murmured, wearily, pacifically, but with a candid resignation that made Harry’s veins ice over.

After that, Harry settled, contented, his face buried in Malfoy’s back...in his feathers—the wings were out now. It was enough. It was all he wanted. A pleasured sound vibrating deep in his throat, Harry closed his eyes, and dozed.

When he awoke, his heat was over. Malfoy was sprawled beside him, still asleep.

In the streams of sunlight that poured in through the curtains, Malfoy was gorgeous, hair shining, skin unblemished, body slim and lithe. His wings made him look angelic, as contrary as the notion seemed in the context of the pureblood.

Harry’s attention lingered on the ivory wings. It meant Malfoy was comfortable with him, didn’t it? As Harry reached down to stroke them, they broadened slightly, Malfoy humming in such a delightfully evocative way, Harry had to pull his hand back to control himself. He could still sense Malfoy’s heat radiating off him. Malfoy stirred and opened a weary gray eye. He beckoned Harry over.

Harry cupped Malfoy’s face, examining him. He trailed his fingers over a small cut on his cheek, left either from work or Malfoy’s own talons. Either way, Harry leaned over and lapped at it with his tongue.

Malfoy was shocked. “Did you just lick me?”

Harry was oddly giddy. “Er…yes?”

Malfoy reached up to touch the wound but Harry could see that it had already faded. “You healed me.” Malfoy made a face, not knowing whether to be pleased or offended.

Without thinking, Harry took it further, lapping Malfoy’s neck, though it wasn’t nearly as productive. He sucked and licked with an unrestrained greed as Malfoy squirmed against him. Harry pushed him flat on his back, shifting his ministrations down his collar bone then chest. He found himself giving special attention to Malfoy’s stomach, not sure why he seemed affixed to it. Malfoy just sighed and leaned back in apparent contentment. Eventually Harry began to migrate farther down, but was interrupted when Malfoy caught his chin, guiding Harry to crawl back up to face him.

Malfoy’s heat was tapering already. Yet they rode out the enduring moments and remnants with deliberate intention. Malfoy spread his thighs, not taking his eyes off Harry’s as he wrapped one of his legs loosely about him.

Harry regarded the blonde. His hands moved mechanically to Malfoy’s hips to roughly jerk his mate closer. Both gasped at the sensation of Malfoy’s body flush on his, with all its slick and readiness.

Without thought, Harry leaned down to steal a kiss, and to his intrigue, Malfoy let him.

*

Potter was developing the tendency to linger, even outside of heats, even in places like work where others could see, and Draco could not deny that his creature enjoyed the attention. They had gone from ignoring each other twenty-eight days a month to spending an inordinate amount of time ( _too much time_ ) together, and it was beginning to facilitate unsavory rumors. By the time Draco put a stop to it, in the form of strategic avoidance, it was already too late. The press had captured a photo, and there was nothing amiable about the amorous look being exchanged between the two of them on the _Prophet_ cover. Draco opened the paper and scanned the accompanying article, an uneasy moue crossing his lips.

 _Is Draco Malfoy a Creature?_ by Saundra Sneed.

_People have long been curious about the glimpses of interaction that only seem to be getting more obvious between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter despite the duo’s ostensible lack of commonality. Sources at the ministry report of frequent quarrels, heated exchanges, and a tendency for the two Hogwarts alumn to disappear together without explanation. This in itself seems indicative of a relationship, but it has also been reported that Mr. Malfoy takes time off quite frequently, in fact, about the same two or so days every month, barring occasions that these days falls on a weekend. Additionally, Malfoy was nowhere to be seen during the last eclipse, when Harry Potter was also (obviously) indisposed for his omnix heat. Judging by Mr. Malfoy’s distinct features, and family genealogy, some have speculated that he has come into a rare veela inheritance. Combined with his clear attachment to Mr. Potter and the power dynamic there, it is believed that he is a rare male omega._

_Is this reporter jumping the shark? Possibly. But let it be known that Malfoy and Potter’s creature bond is already considered common knowledge in the magizoology community, and at least one anonymous Hogwarts staff member has confirmed their magical attachment (issue K76). Rare though a creature bond is these days, Mr. Potter has made a reputation out of defying the odds, so there is no reason to expect anything otherwise._

_That being established, there is one last curiosity that simply must be entertained. Mr. Malfoy’s recent bout of weight gain has called into question—_

Cheeks heating, Draco snapped the paper shut.

Though maybe he should have proceeded. Sneed’s theory couldn’t have been much worse than any of his own. Draco rested his elbows on his desk to hold his head between his hands.

His decision to hide away from Potter wasn’t just about the growing intimacy. Other things were growing. And it was less than two weeks before his next heat.

Potter had increasingly been reaching out in Draco’s physical absence, flooing, owling, sending memos, with no purpose other than to unravel the remainder of Draco’s sanity. Or maybe Potter was acting on instinct. Draco didn’t know, but he was too unnerved to even think about figuring it out. So instead he withdrew. Besides, he was dealing with other things.

Draco shifted his focus to his rounded belly. This was definitely punishment for shagging Potter during their last heat. The bump had popped up out of nowhere, making him look as though he was...well... It had just sort of developed before he’d even had the chance notice it. _Potter_ was going to notice it. It stood out blatantly on Draco’s slim physique. Potter would see it when they met for Draco’s next heat. _If I have a next heat,_ Draco thought uneasily.

Fucking veela genes. Even when he’d finally noticed the weight gain, Draco had sort of liked it at first, thinking it looked okay. He had run his hands over his small belly, bizarrely _admiring_ it when he should have been disgusted.

But as he had grown, he’d managed to push past the instinct to realize that something profound was happening to him. He suspected he knew what it was, but the idea was ridiculous. Or the opposite. Draco wasn’t sure.

*

The next day Draco had an appointment with a veela specialist.

He lay stiffly through the exam, trying not to drive himself anymore apprehensive than he already was. After it was over, Healer Shaw wore a pensive look on her face.

“Tell me I’m not somehow pregnant,” Draco blurted as he sat up.

“You’re not pregnant.”

“Oh thank Merlin,” Draco breathed. “Then what the hell is it?”

“An egg.”

Draco blanched.

“You can think of it as the veela form of ovulation. Your body is ready to be, well, fertilized.”

Draco struggled to breathe, instead producing wheezes. The healer gently rubbed his back.

“I’ll try to explain,” she continued, once Draco had recovered enough that he was pallid but no longer suffocating. “So the mate dynamic is all about compatibility. Physical, emotional, magical—it’s all there. To create an egg is even rarer. It’s about connection and choice. It’s about lov—”

“How dare you!” Draco cut her off. “I’m not—! We’re not—!” He couldn’t continue, he was too mortified.

Shaw sighed. “I would recommend that you don’t take this lightly. Creature pairings are scarce enough, let alone same-sex ones. And it is unspeakably rare for a male veela to have an egg develop even once in his lifetime. The egg means you’re comfortable, happy, and ready to have a family with your mate. Or your body is. It is a...positive indicator.”

Draco glowered at her.

“If your mate fertilizes the egg, it will develop into a baby. If not, the egg will simply be reabsorbed into your body following your next heat.”

*

Draco flooed to his office, and it was just after he pulled off his outer robes that he heard the voice by the door.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Draco stiffened. He slowly turned to face Potter, who was leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed.

Potter’s eyes automatically darted to Draco’s stomach. Lips parting, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“I gained weight,” said Draco nonchalantly. He grimaced as he hung his outer robe.

Potter seemed utterly transfixed. “Oh...it doesn’t look bad...” he said, stunned. “It actually looks rather nice.” He began to walk over, and despite that Draco wanted to back away, he found himself glued to the spot. 

Potter laid his hand against the bump, causing a pulse of heat to flow through Draco’s core. He trembled in his efforts not to jump the omnix. Potter’s pupils dilated. He could feel it too. He stroked Draco’s stomach, captivated by it.

By some miracle, Draco managed to wrench away from the contact. “It’s actually some sort of innocuous tumor egg thing,” he rambled.

“Egg?” Potter’s eyes bulged.

Of course the prick would catch the only relevant word. “It’s completely benign and pointless. Just some random veela affliction. It will self-correct after my next heat. We just can’t, er...”

Potter looked dubious. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” Draco lied.

“Okay, then...I’ll stop by later.” 

Draco nearly cursed as Potter left. He knew Potter would run off to consult Granger the first chance he got. Resigning his efforts to be productive that day, Draco scribbled a sick note then absconded to the manor.

*

Draco was midway through afternoon tea with his parents when Potter tumbled out of the floo.

“I can fertilize you?”

Draco flushed crimson. “Absolutely not!”

His parents watched, nonplussed, as the two proceeded with an indecipherable shouting match of the most weird nature, and it couldn’t even be resolved with makeup sex. Draco made to storm off when Potter caught his arm.

 **“Stay,”** Potter commanded.

As he froze in place, Draco’s face twisted in fury. He attempted to throttle Potter, but the prat simply stepped out of his reach.

“Can we talk about this?”

“What’s there to discuss?”

“I didn’t know this was a possibility.”

“Potter...”

“We should think about it. At least talk.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “You want to fertilize me?”

Potter reddened. “Your body’s trying to tell you something. And your condition speaks for itself. We’re right together. You’re—happy.”

Draco swallowed.

“This may be our only chance to have a child.” He closed in to stroke his stomach again, rekindling the building warmth that felt like pepper-up being injected straight into Draco’s bloodstream. “We should consider it,” Potter beseeched.

“We’re not even really together,” Draco grumbled. “I was completely blindsided by this. We’re not married. I’m an Unspeakable, I can’t just—” He shook his head. “I don’t want to take time off. And I c-cant get fat.”

“This is about your image? Really?”

“I don’t want to be pregnant!” Draco snarled. “I _won’t_. If you want it so bad, _you_ do it.”

Potter scowled. “I’m not the one with the equipment for that, apparently.”

Draco blushed. “You don’t want this anyway. It’s just your creature talking.”

“But I do. I _want_ ,” Potter said, making Draco’s heart stagger. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. You’re my bonded, and you’re quite...important to me. The _most_ important.”

Draco felt dizzy.

“And though this egg thing is rather jarring, I think we can turn it into something lovely.” Potter ran his free hand through Draco’s hair, drawing loose strands away from his face.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut for a moment then opened them again. “Fuck off,” he rasped.

Potter’s face fell. “Malfoy— _Draco._ ”

“You’re just trying to keep me submissive,” Draco groused, and Potter looked horrified. “I don’t mean anything to you and you know it.” He wasn’t going to let Potter guilt him into this.

“Darling.” Draco stiffened when Mother spoke. He had forgotten his parents’ presence in the room.

“Mum...”

“Please be reasonable. Think of your future.”

“Potter’s right,” said Father, looking pained as he said it. “This may be your only chance for an heir.”

Draco took a shuddering breath. He experimentally moved and was relieved to find his feet no longer attached to the floor. “I have to go,” he said, and he quickly apparated to avoid any additional protest.

*

He couldn’t handle the permanence of a child. He was too young, and hadn’t known it was a possibility for him. He didn’t even think he could commit to Potter to that extent. What were they but slaves to their creatures?

Draco hated looking like this. He was aware of the steady growth of the small paunch, and it was kind of endearing but it kind of disgusted him. An egg. He absently stroked it but then caught himself and stopped.

When he arrived at Pansy’s her gaze flickered to the swell. “You got fat,” she deadpanned.

“Indeed,” Draco responded.

“Is that what you two are fighting about?” Pansy asked once they were settled in the kitchen with two cups of tea.

“What? No—we’re not—of course not.”

“Just saying, it’s oddly coincidental.”

“Potter doesn’t care how fat I get,” said Draco bitterly. He almost wished he did.

He spent the next few days avoiding the issue while being entertained by stories of Pansy’s sexual exploits with a strange absence of envy. Sometimes the topic turned to the weird monogamous thing he had going with Potter but Draco could hardly formulate words to characterize it.

Draco also started to compulsively...clean and organize things in Pansy’s apartment. The healer had told him to expect it. _Nesting,_ she’d said. It was accompanied by a chronic, underlying anxiety that slowly swelled until his heat.

Pansy was out with her latest conquest, and Draco paced half the night, before retiring to the guest room where he tossed, turned, and thought indulgently about Potter. It was his first heat without him and it made the thought of combustion metaphorically appropriate for how bad he felt.

He climbed out of bed, flushed and breathless, his slick trickling down his thighs. His body felt awkward, and he looked more than halfway through a pregnancy by now. He knew it was a bad idea but found himself floo-calling Potter.

“Shit, Draco, are you okay?” Potter’s face appeared in the flames.

Potter was still using his given name. Draco frowned, blushed, and nodded, too scattered to figure out how he felt about it.

“Where are you?” Potter queried.

“Rather not say,” Draco managed.

“Okay, okay. Just—I’m glad you called.”

“Are you?” said Draco skeptically.

“Of course I am,” Potter responded, though he sounded distraught.

Crouching down was uncomfortable, and making his back sore, so Draco gingerly reclined on the rug, his hand sliding to his firm bump. Potter stared at how big he’d gotten.

“You look—”

“Like an erumpet?”

_“—so cute.”_

“S-shut up Potter.”

Potter chuckled, and Draco pretended not to notice the way he reached under his glasses to wipe his eyes.

“You’re not too fidgety this time,” Potter noted.

“Just fucking antsy.”

They talked some more, and bantered over who had easier heats (Potter obviously). Draco let Potter’s voice wash over him, soothing him in ways it hadn’t when the heats had first started. At some point, he finally passed out.

In the morning, his torso was flat, as though the egg had never happened. The fire had burned down completely to ashes. Draco sat up and drew his knees to his chest.

*

A few months later, Draco sat at dinner in the manor, shaking his leg impatiently under the table.

“Another heat already, darling?”

Draco frowned at his mother. His heats seemed to be coming whenever the hell they wanted these days. The doorbell rang, and a few moments later, Binkey announced the arrival of Potter.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Potter, sitting down beside him. He slung his arm around Draco’s chair to stroke his nape, and Draco melted slightly.

As Father ignored Potter’s existence, as was his wont, Mother raised her brows.

“I didn’t know you’d be over tonight, Mr. Potter.”

“No? Yeah, Draco can get distracted when he’s like this.” Potter leaned back, his auror robes stretching again his growing layer of muscle. “We’re both going into...um...within a day or so of each other. So we decided to take a long weekend.”

“Hm.” Mother sipped her wine.

Draco unconsciously shifted closer, determined to increase the contact between the two of them until Potter cleared his throat.

“Shh, not yet.” Potter removed Draco’s hand from his groin and replaced it on Draco’s fork. Mother coughed and Father dropped the roll he’d been holding. “Eat, Draco.”

Draco tried, but everything tasted like cardboard and scraped like sand against the inside of his throat. He got a quarter of the way through his plate by the time Potter finally let him give up. They excused themselves, and as they disappeared from the view of the dining room, Potter slid his hand to his arse, giving a squeeze that made Draco almost lose his balance.

Ever since the egg, there had been a spike in the intensity of Draco’s heats. Or maybe Draco had just gotten too addicted to Potter’s cock to put up any resistance anymore.

He dragged Potter to his quarters and pushed him on the bed, before quickly kicking off his own clothes and climbing atop him. With shaking hands he shoved down Potter’s trousers as Potter took his hips, guiding him down until Draco groaned and Potter hissed. Potter let Draco ride him all night. The heat carried into the next day, when Draco was weary but still desperately in need. They switched positions and Potter fucked him slowly. By the time the heat broke, they were both exhausted.

Draco was sprawled back, his wings out. They always were during heats now.

“That was intense,” said Potter huskily.

“Yeah...”

“M’just gonna rest,” he said, voice muffled as he buried his face against a pillow.

Draco felt Potter’s arm against his. He was getting feverish and had a few hours yet.

“Come over here,” said Draco. “Don’t want you to sleep through it and burn the house down.”

Potter snorted, but climbed over into Draco arms, against his chest, eyes closed, and breath beating against Draco’s collarbone.

Draco thought he would sleep too but found himself staring, feeling Potter’s temperature incrementally climb as minutes turned to hours, until specks of light glowed under Potter’s skin, drifting around like fairy lights.

Draco woke him. “It’s starting.”

“Oh, right,” said Potter groggily.

Draco was about to propose they fuck over the Florentine chest when Potter leaned up and kissed him.

 _Git_ , Draco thought as he kissed back.

Potter’s heats were always more intimate than sexual, and it unnerved Draco a little. More uncomfortably, Potter’s heat had no effect on Draco whatsoever. Draco wouldn’t have even noticed his mate was in need if it wasn’t written on his calendar. Draco said as much and Potter rolled eyes. 

“Selfishness of a submissive,” Potter mocked and Draco smirked.

More than anything else, Potter wanted to kiss. No matter how much Draco tried to distract him with funner things, it always came back to their lips and Draco obliged him.

When it was over, he couldn’t seem to put his wings away to his chagrin. He rolled onto his stomach and Potter stroked his feathers till he was putty. It didn’t help.

They slept for a full day. When Draco awoke, he was wrapped with his back to Potter’s chest. Potter was absently stroking his stomach in his sleep.

Draco turned in his arms. “Get up Potter. You have work.” He kicked at Potter’s ankles.

“Mm...” Potter just pulled him closer notwithstanding Draco’s grudging mumbles. Finally he opened jade eyes, peered, and ambushed Draco with a sloppy kiss. “I love waking up with you.”

Draco kissed him back to make him shut up.

After showering, Draco went down to breakfast while Potter was still getting ready for work. He grunted at his parents in greeting and hardly found the energy to lift his toast to his lips. His mind was gently reeling, and his stomach, cramping slightly.

Potter passed through with moist hair and fresh auror robes. “Hello, good morning. Can’t stay for tea. Running late. Goodbye then,” he said, avoiding Mother and Father’s eyes, as he always did after spending the night.

As Mother strained her lips into a would-be smile, Draco had little energy to do anything but ignore him like Father. Potter hurried off, but returned a moment later, during which he buried his face in Draco’s hair, deeply inhaled, then left again.

Draco stiffened, unsettled by the action. Both his parents gave him queer looks, and he rolled his eyes to brush it off.

*

A few weeks later, the two were arguing by floo over quidditch teams.

“Puddlemere cannot be beat. Not with their current roster,” Draco called from the bathroom as he got dressed. He paused to struggle with his trousers buttons.

“The Tornadoes have promise,” Potter disagreed. “Have you seen the new chasers?”

“What good are chasers when the seeker is useless?” Draco called back scathingly. He could practically see Potter pout.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m coming through. I want to talk to you.”

“What?” Draco poked his head out of the bathroom door. “Wait Potter, it’s not a good time and—” But the floo roared.

Hissing a curse, Draco turned away and hastily pulled his robes around himself, but it was useless.

A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind. They comfortably reached down to cradle his belly. Draco sighed and sunk back against Potter’s chest. He glanced back and was surprised to see amusement in verdant eyes.

There was no denying the growth on his slim frame. The thickening of his waist had quickly developed into a tangible bump.

“Are you...um...ovulating again?” said Potter delicately.

Draco winced. “Nope. Just getting fat.”

Potter huffed out a laugh. “I noticed you were getting a little tummy.”

“Mm.”

“Who knew Draco Malfoy would be so fucking fertile?” said Potter, kissing his neck, and making Draco shiver. “This is the second time this year you’ve made an egg for me.”

And his traitorous body wanted it. It wanted Potter to fertilize him, to fuck a baby into him. His eyes fluttered as Potter rubbed the bump. “Do you think it’ll keep happening?” said Draco uneasily.

“No clue,” Potter responded. “Merlin, it looks so fucking good on you.”

He knew Potter thought it did. It turned him on just like it was supposed to.

Potter paused. “Our heats overlap again this month. I think—best one of us is out of town so we can’t reach each other.”

Draco‘s eyes widened. “You’re willing to burn?” He pulled away to face the omnix.

Potter’s words were earnest, “Yes. Of course.”

*

As the days passed, with the absence of distractions besides his own swelling body, Draco would often look down at himself and try to entertain the thought of actually having a _baby_. It was a lot, even just the thought of it. But when he implemented Potter into the equation, things got a little easier. He imagined Potter’s wild hair or green eyes. He imagined the three of them being _family._

 _Hormones,_ he would tell himself, yet the thoughts would vacillate and never fade. Omegas fucking loved babies. Stupid omega brain.

He blamed it mostly on the absence of shock and horror. He had gotten used to the concept and now it was his default.

When his parents noticed he was fattening up again, they became as frigid as Draco was evasive. Somehow they refrained from commenting, yet they asked after Potter so frequently it made Draco twitch with an intensifying need, which was only exacerbated by his rapidly approaching heat and newfound preoccupation with babies.

Babies.

Babies.

Was it him or the creature? Did it matter? Weren’t the two one in the same? The creature seemed to want it...he wanted it so badly. He needed to figure this out. More importantly, he needed to speak to Potter.

Draco floo called Grimmauld and was not surprised when there was no response. He tried Potter’s office in the DMLE to similar results.

Draco licked his lips. He knew he was on the cusp of heat but he wanted to make the decision clear-minded. And if he didn’t reach Potter soon, the omnix would be indisposed before Draco could reach him and the egg would reabsorb. So Draco grit his teeth, and with a perilous determination, he called the Granger-Weasley household.

Granger picked up, which was only somewhat preferable to Weasley.

“Malfoy,” she said in surprise as she regarded him. “You’re—oh my.”

He knew he looked like a mess. Knees sore, Draco shifted to his arse, leaning back on his hands. “I—need—Potter,” he said breathlessly, then reddened. “I mean—I need to _speak_ to Potter.”

Granger’s thoughtful expression opened with comprehension. “Look at you, all swollen and smitten. Oh, you’re going to—”

“Stop it,” Draco cut her off, reddening worse. “For Merlin’s sake, stop it Granger. Just tell me where he is.”

“At work,” Granger admitted, anticlimactically.

“Ah...” Draco absently rubbed his stomach. It wasn’t as nice as when Potter did it.

“His mission is running long. He said he was going on some trip straight after in the morning. What with the eclipse, I didn’t really get it, but—now things add up, don’t they? You know Draco, your condition is quite the rarity. You’re making the right decision. Oh, I’m so happy for the both of you!”

Draco shot her a withering look. “I just wanted to _speak_ to him,” he emphasized. “We haven’t made any decision but...er...there is a time limit, and we, we might.” He swallowed.

“Oh Draco!” Granger beamed. “You two will make excellent parents. I just can’t wait till—oh.” Her face fell. “The mission is confidential. And he refused to tell me where he was going afterwards.”

Draco’s heart sunk. “Mm.” He rubbed at an uncomfortable twinge that bloomed in his core.

Granger stared at him, her eyes shining in the flames. “Well, what harm could it do?” she said, before proceeding to disclose Potter’s assigned apparation point for the mission, as well as several other mission details seemingly for the sake of conversation. “And you wouldn’t believe what Perkins did to the cat—”

“Right, thanks Granger,” Draco cut her off. He closed off the floo connection before she could congratulate him any more times than she already had.

His best bet would be to catch Potter before he headed out in the morning.

Draco heaved a sigh and began to gather his courage all over again. 

*

Draco arrived to the apparation site late mostly because of nerves, procrastination, and a sudden fondness for coddling his eagle owl who in turn stuck out its leg and screeched for a chore.

Potter was just about to apparate away when Draco panicked and shot out a potent surge of allure that left Potter swaying.

As Draco timidly stepped into the alleyway, Potter looked up and raised his brows.

“Thought I sensed an ovulating veela nearby.”

Draco wrinkled his nose at the term.

“How often do you use that on me?”

“My allure? Only constantly,” Draco drawled.

“No wonder I’m so desperately in love with you,” said Potter dryly.

It made Draco’s head foggy. He looked at the ground. It was not the first time Potter had said it, and it left him just as speechless as it had the last time.

When Draco looked up, he saw that Potter’s eyes were locked on his midsection. “What are you doing here? I have to catch a portkey to Prague.”

“Yet you just gave up your location,” Draco noted, as he stepped closer.

“Silly me,” Potter responded, the hoarse timbre of his voice making Draco shiver.

It was a struggle to keep his wings contained. Lately they seemed to pop out whenever Potter was in close proximity.

He could see Potter’s temperature climb like hives crawling up his throat. Both reached out to hold each other’s hands.

“You should go,” said Potter quietly.

“Well...” Draco dithered. “I wonder if you should come with me.”

“I—what?” Potter gave a confused grin. It softened as he realized.

“Tell me why. Why should we have a baby?”

Potter’s breath hitched. “We would be a family,” he said. “We could name them, mold them into whomever we want them to be. Better than we are.”

Draco hummed.

“Imagine your gray eyes. Or your blonde hair. I’d love to have a little Draco running around.”

Draco thought it would be nicer to have a little Potter with his knobby knees and avada kedavra-green orbs.

“I know you’re insecure, but you look gorgeous with a belly. I’m not just saying it, I swear you do.”

_Eugh._

“And think about how cute children are—”

“Harry.”

“Think about afternoon naps, bedtime stories, family dinners, game nights, picnics, accidental magic, and—”

“Fine,” said Draco succinctly.

“What?”

“Fine, you can—” Draco flushed. “I want it. I want— _that._ ”

“Oh.” Potter marveled at him for a moment. “Oh god, thank you.” He kissed him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Draco weakly nodded. “Now come knock me up. Before you—explode or something.”

Potter offered a strained smile, and Draco could tell he was getting emotional. He gave Draco one more kiss, before pulling him close, and apparating them both to Grimmauld.

*

“A little boy,” she said.

Draco’s mind reeled where he sat up on the clinic bed. Potter gawked at the news as both tried to process it.

“You can already tell?” said Draco, somewhat alarmed. Potter had only knocked him up a week ago.

“Veela pregnancies are quite short. Your egg will be out in another two months.”

“Fuck,” said Draco. Potter had insisted on holding his hand, and now Draco squeezed Potter’s mercilessly as the omnix winced, grimaced, and tried to discreetly tug free.

“He’s a bit nervous,” Potter mentioned. “Well, we both are.”

“How…erm…how does it come out?” Draco had been almost too afraid to ask.

“Hm, well, ending a pregnancy with reverse-apparation isn’t ordinarily possible, what with babies being so twitchy and whatnot. But since veelas typically carry eggs, which have defined boundaries, the technique is fine to use. Once your water breaks, it will be safe to proceed,” Healer Shaw finished.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

Shaw continued, “As things progress, Mr. Potter, you might find yourself getting overprotective, which is completely normal for a dominant. Mr. Malfoy, you can expect more nesting, and I’m sure you’re already beginning to notice your wings are harder to retract. Sometimes there is the need for magical support, and you might find yourself unconsciously siphoning Mr. Potter’s power. After the egg is delivered, the time it will hatch is dependent on...”

Hopefully Potter was paying attention, because for Draco, it had all become indecipherable static. He stared off and mused that this was _actually_ happening, and—

“Draco? Draco?”

Someone was saying his name. Draco looked up to see both Shaw and Potter eying him.

Potter leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. “A boy,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched. “Merlin, I love you,” he said by accident and blamed the bloody hormones. Eyes wide, Draco froze.

Potter looked entirely startled. Slowly, he smiled. “You’re my mate. You’re everything,” he murmured.

Then he pulled back, idly stroking Draco’s nape, as both industriously pretended to listen while Shaw prattled on.

**Epilogue**

Harry was rambling. “At night I wrap him in this blanket, and sometimes, if he gets lonely, I just talk to him a bit and stroke his shell and...”

Malfoy was leaning back on the doorframe, his arms crossed as he watched the scene with blithe disinterest.

It was Ron’s first time babysitting, and he was admittedly appalled. He shot Hermione a look that said, _There’s no way this thing is a real baby, amirite?_

His wife responded with a glare that said, _Ron stop being an arse._

Ron was fed up. “Okay, right, I’ll watch your fake baby so you can go shag Malfoy. Just leave it in the corner by the tool chest.”

Harry was apoplectic, his face going scarlet. “I—you—t-tool che—”

“Harry, darling, you’re catching sparks. You know I can’t have that.” Malfoy appeared beside them and grabbed hold of Harry who correspondingly deflated. The blonde dragged Harry off, not before throwing Ron a sharp look that promised a slow death if something happened to their fake egg baby thing.

Ron snorted and walked off as Hermione frowned and rocked the egg in her arms.

*

Parenting was proving easier than Draco had anticipated. He did little to nothing. Veela egg incubation periods lasted anywhere from a few weeks to a few years during which the “mother” could neither suffer heats nor...ugh...ovulate. It had been eleven months already and it was a win-win all around.

Except not for Harry. Harry still had his regular heats and had become severely overprotective of the egg. One time during Draco’s pregnancy Harry had metaphorically exploded at the ministry, yelling at Draco’s boss for having the audacity of grabbing his mate’s shoulder. When Harry had finally regained control of himself, he went pale and dashed off, not before several loitering reporters had gotten photos and had begun soliciting Draco for quotes.

Harry was also much more combustible these days, what with all the anxiety. Draco tried to stay close to him from the first moment his heats started.

“Ow!” Draco yelped as the man in question flicked his nipple.

Harry pulled back from where he had been ravaging the crook of Draco’s neck, his favorite part to suck and nibble. “What is it?” He frowned.

“Nothing,” Draco responded hastily. “Just jerk me off.” Anything to keep his hands busy.

Harry thought for a moment, then seemingly came up with a better idea, because he crawled down, and Draco’s breath shuddered.

Despite the pleasure, Draco absently rubbed his sore chest. It was swollen slightly, his nipples achy. According to the Healer, it was a sign that the egg would be hatching soon. Apparently he had some sort of magical bond to the sprog. Draco had determined it best not to notify Harry of this development at the risk of making the omnix’s edginess worse.

Of course, it was hard to hide it when Harry was always nipping at him in the bedroom.

“F-fuck,” Draco groaned, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair as he desperately tried not to buck.

Their friends were all too happy to babysit (mostly). Draco wasn’t sure it was vaguely necessary, but the distance seemed to help Harry, especially on his heat days.

Mother and Father babysat from time to time as well, but Draco had decided to cut back after walking in on a few too many lectures on pureblood supremacy. (Who knew how impressionable their egg-baby was?)

The hatching process was sure to be intriguing. If the shell burned, it meant the child was a born omnix. If the baby sprouted wings that broke the shell, it meant the infant was a born veela. And if the baby simply wobbled enough for the shell to break open, it meant the baby could be anything from a wizard to a squib, though still had a risk of creature inheritance given certain triggers.

Life had certainly changed. The absence of Draco’s heats had allowed them to explore what they truly meant to each other. They had slowly become a functionally normal couple, and even became more public about their relationship (of course, Harry’s outbursts guaranteed that). There were dinners, duels, and seeker games. Draco was on strict orders to address Harry by first name (and Harry hadn’t even had to command him to do so). Their inherent sexual compatibility had eliminated any nerves another couple might suffer during the dating process. Then there was the underlying anticipation of parenthood that served to nudge them on towards inevitable domesticity.

The absence of Draco’s heats also facilitated a more ordinary sex life (“Dammit Potter, stop being so ticklish!”). They got along well. They even...loved each other, when Draco was inebriated enough to admit it, or drugged on fatigue, or curled up, and Harry kissed every part of his face till he said it back.

When Draco and Harry went to pick up their _I-don’t-care-what-you-say-Ron-that’s-our-baby_ the following day, Harry was, thankfully, more relaxed than he’d been in weeks.

Draco sat down and examined the shell for the faintest of scratches. In the meantime, Harry unnecessarily rubbed Draco’s shoulders.

“So still living between Malfoy manor and Grimmauld?” Weasley asked as he plopped down on the couch beside Granger.

“Yeah,” said Harry, smiling as he looked up. “Though I’m planning to start looking for a bigger house soon.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Potter wants no less than ten children.”

“Oh? Is that why you’re so attentive lately?” Hermione asked Harry. “You’re trying to make his creature happy enough to ov—to produce another egg?” Draco disliked the ‘O’ word severely.

“Which I can’t do while this one is still incubating,” Draco said, gesturing to the egg in his arms. “Harry would know if he ever _listened._ ”

Harry smiled darkly. He seemed to just take it as a challenge. Draco sighed and ordered him to get on with the massage. _He better stop this nonsense once the egg hatches. One child is more than sufficient._ Draco sagged into Harry’s touch. _Or maybe two, or...uhhhn...the tosser._ When the hell had Harry gotten so good at shoulder rubs?

*

Draco awoke in the middle of the night, rolled over, and would have happily gone back to sleep had he not glimpsed Harry standing in his pajamas, staring intently at the egg, his arms crossed.

Draco groaned. “You wanker.”

Harry startled and turned to him, a look of guilt crossing his visage.

“Come back to bed.”

With one last glance at the egg, Harry acquiesced, and crawled beneath the comforter.

“You have to stop doing this,” Draco mumbled. “You’re driving yourself mad.”

“Can’t help it,” Harry murmured. “Merlin, it’s been so long. _Eleven months_ , Draco.”

“Which is entirely normal.” Draco closed his eyes.

“He’s just so fragile.”

“He’s _fine._ ”

“What if...what if he never hatches?”

Draco’s eyes snapped open, his face draining of color. “What did you just say?” he managed, as his heart gave feeble spasms in lieu of beating. 

“I—didn’t mean—”

“Why would you say that? How—how dare you?” Draco sat up. “Arsehole.”

“Draco—”

But Draco was already throttling him, Harry holding up his arms to protect his face from furious claws. It quickly got so out of hand that Harry grabbed his arms and pinned him down.

 **“Omega,”** he growled.

Draco’s chest heaved. “Fuck you,” he whispered, tempered, but only _just_. 

“I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

“You better be.”

Harry released him, and Draco turned away, subjecting himself to a fretful sleep that only resulted in him lying awake, staring at the egg, much the way Harry had just moments earlier. He pushed himself upright and made no intimations of trying to rest.

What if this was somehow his fault? Shaw had called the timing of the hatching arbitrary, based in precarious magic. It could relate to the parents. No one really understood it, and it scared the daylights out of him.

Draco’s eyes drifted to the nest. Harry had made it. It hadn’t started off as a nest but a secure raised platform with some cushioning, indented enough that the egg couldn’t roll away. Harry had kept adding more and more. Blankets, pillows, stuffing, and whatever else suited as insulation. It had confused Draco, who consequently put in some research. Apparently a normal veela couple would have just dumped their egg in a drawer. Draco hadn’t had the heart to tell Harry. As he thought about this, he smirked.

“How are your nipples?” Harry queried.

It was only then that Draco noticed that the sun was out, Harry was up, and Draco was absently rubbing his chest through his nightshirt. “Fucking sore,” he grumbled.

“That’s a good sign.” Harry was meticulously optimistic this morning.

Draco looked at him, askance. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Not where you’re concerned.” Harry shrugged.

At work that day, Draco was called on during a meeting.

“How is your progress with the crimson chards?”

Draco cleared his throat. “After the curse was extracted, they maintained their integrity, and I—well—” His lungs stalled and his gut twisted. The egg...something was...happening. Draco didn’t know if he apparated or if his clipboard had somehow become a portkey, but he suddenly found himself in the Granger-Weasley living room just as the egg fell on its side and cracked into a million tiny iridescent pieces.

All that was left was a wailing infant. Draco lowered himself to his knees.

Weasley strolled in, his sandwich falling limply to the floor. “Holy hell Malfoy, congrats! It really _was_ a—well, I—I’ll get Harry!” He floundered off.

Hardly cognizant of Weasley’s words, Draco carefully lifted the baby into his arms.

He was slimy and flushed, but also perfect. He had fine blonde hair and emerald eyes that Draco immediately adored. He cradled the baby against him.

The world faded except for the snuffling of the newborn, and a comforting twinge of pain in his chest that faded after just a moment. All Draco was aware of was the warmth and weight of the baby against him, until he heard his mate calling, a hand stroking his feathers.

Blinking out of his reverie, Draco unwrapped his wings from around his body to see Harry crouched beside him offering a watery smile. He looked down at the open front of his robes where the baby was nursing, his eyes closed.

Draco bit his lip. He’d had a submissive episode. The Healer had mentioned those might occur. “Er, sorry. How long was I—?"

“You’re fine,” Harry insisted, as he settled down. “Only a few minutes. You’re _supposed_ to bond with him, I just...I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see him.” He reached down to stroke the baby’s head, his eyes shining behind his glasses. “Merlin.”

The two fell silent for a while, Draco leaning against Harry’s side until the baby finished eating. Draco hesitated, and held the baby out for Harry to hold.

“Are you sure?” said Harry with a hint of uncertainty.

Draco wasn’t but he nodded anyway. He gingerly settled the baby against Harry’s chest, watching as Harry examined the child, and patted his back, until the baby sicked up on the front of his work robes.

Despite it, Harry grinned at Draco, before twisting his face into a worried expression that made Draco wonder if he looked as jittery as he felt.

“Here,” Harry offered. “Shaw said you two need lots of contact for the first few days.”

Draco was grateful to have the baby eased back into his arms. As the tension dissolved from his shoulders, he realized the sudden role reversal. Accepting the hopelessness of controlling his flaring submissive predilections, Draco heard himself blurt, “Do you like him?”

Harry ogled him, his expression at the midpoint between amused and appalled. “Of course I do. He’s my child. I _love_ him.”

Draco nodded dumbly.

Harry watched him for a while. “I love you as well, you know.”

Draco made a noise of acknowledgement, his cheeks warming. Damn submissive hormones.

“I’m pleased, Draco. Proud of you. You’re the most perfect submissive I could ask for; you had a _baby_ for me .”

Harry usually earned a sharp kick for that sort of dominant blathering, but Draco found himself trying not to preen. And Harry was clearly enjoying it.

“Alpha,” Draco murmured, eyes transfixed on jade ones. He knew he was as much a slave to his dominant as his dominant was to him.

“Omega,” Harry veritably seethed the word as he cupped the side of Draco’s face, his expression contorting with possessiveness. Then he lowered his eyes to their infant and drew a long breath. “Let’s go home.”

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Please help promote the fest by sharing your favourite submissions so more people can enjoy the HD Mpreg fest
> 
> Thanks!  
> Author and artist reveals are on June 16th.


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